


The hundred eleventh

by adrabbler



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:49:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3713839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrabbler/pseuds/adrabbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>April 8, 2015: France is strangely not romantic and England takes charge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The hundred eleventh

“One hundred and eleven years.”

“Hmmm?” France asked, mid-sip, turning to look at England. They were sitting on the deck, admiring the sunset as it painted the skies in oranges and purples. It was spring, thankfully, so the weather wasn’t half as freezing as it would’ve been a few weeks ago. (And just for the occasion, he wore his new navy satin-trimmed blazer from Saint Laurent paired with tight fitting black jeans that practically looked painted on from Pierre Cardin, which England still hasn’t deigned to give his admiration to, the salaud) They were both in the middle of the Channel, only because both of them were so adamant about not spending the day in the other’s country, but were still sentimental enough to spend it in the middle of the Channel as a compromise every year since their first anniversary (with the exception of a few years in the 1910's and the 1940s). Personally, he thought that England was just being petty. Any place in France was more romantic than any other place on earth. Why he kept insisting that it be in England was just mere arrogance.

“One hundred and eleven years,” England repeated, this time with a hint of annoyance.

“Hmmm,” France replied nonchalantly, which really was an understatement. If he were to be honest, he didn’t think they would last that long. The fact that they went out of their way to come here at all every year was in itself a miracle.

“That’s all you have to say?” England growled from where he was seated, which was a mere centimetres away from his own chair.

France turned to him, blinking several times. Was England actually prodding him to say something romantic? Well. It did make sense. France was always the one to do that every year, to which England would constantly give him a disdainful look or a dismissive scoff (which was getting tiresome, to be honest). He licked his lips. “Nothing I can say could possibly do justice to the event, cheri.”

England rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, appearing dissatisfied.

France, however, settled back in his chair. One hundred and eleven years. It was probably the longest time in which they hadn’t murdered each other in cold blood. Honestly, it was surreal. Two hundred years ago, had he been told that he would enter some sort of understanding or alliance with England, he never would have believed it. And yet, here they were.

“Not even some paltry attempt at reminiscence or a toast?” his partner goaded.

France hummed. He raised his glass of Parfait d’Amour (how ironic). “To 111 years more.” And then he took a sip. He was oddly at a loss for words tonight. Maybe a little more liqueur would help. He took a longer sip.

“Oh for god’s sake!” England snapped, sitting up. “Do you even care at all?”

“Of course I do, mon trésor,” France mumbled. “It’s just that,” he turned back to him, swirling the contents of his glass absent-mindedly. “I do this every year.”

England raised a brow at him. “And?”

France turned back to his glass, pouting and sank lower. How does he tell him anything without starting a fight? He really didn’t feel like ruining his clothes. The economy wasn’t doing well enough for him to just randomly replace them. Why couldn’t he just think of something meaningful to say anyway? He was usually so good at this.

 _I’ve just run out of things to say._  Doing this for the past hundred or so years by himself is just bound to get so repetitive and pointless. It’s not like England even appreciates it. Why should he be the only one in charge of saying something anyway? This relationship isn’t supposed to be one-sided. Why can’t England leave him alone to enjoy his Parfait d’Amour for once? It was a clear and gorgeous night and he really didn’t feel like going into a scuffle.

“Well?” England asked.

France moistened his lips. “I. I’ve just. I’ve run out of things to say.”

“You? You’ve run out of romantic things to say? Is hell freezing over?”

“I get tired too, Angleterre,” France muttered quietly, taking another long sip.

There was silence.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 _Merde_. They were heading towards a fight, weren’t they? Why can’t England just let it go? He closed his eyes. Well, if they didn’t fight, they wouldn’t be them, would they? “It’s not like you appreciated my little speeches. We might as well not have them.”

A tensed silence stretched between them. France was waiting for England to yell or maybe walk out. England—well, he was probably thinking the same.

 _Great, I ruined it_ —

England exhaled sharply, making France jump. “I always appreciated them. Your speeches.”

France turned to him and just stared. England was looking at the sky and determinedly not at him.

England rubbed the back of his neck. “Bollocks, it’s my turn, isn’t it?” He took another deep breath. “I. I’ve always appreciated. What. What you’ve. Done. For me.”

France gripped his glass tightly internally squealing. Was this really happening? He wondered if he was allowed to take a video of him saying it. Oh he should have worn something else for this occasion had he known!

England sighed. “If it weren’t for you, I never would have turned out as I am now. If it weren’t for your arrogance and—”

France frowned. “Angleterre, my speeches were sweet and I never tried to insult you in them, hard as that may—”

“Oh belt up,” England snapped, glaring at the floor. “It’s hard enough that I’m doing this on the spot, I don’t need you interrupting me. I wasn’t even finished.”

“Desolee,” France said in a small voice, sneakily taking his phone out from his pocket as he sat up straighter. “Please continue.”

England exhaled loudly and then looked up the sky once more, not noticing that France was already taking a video of him through his phone, which was hidden between his legs.

“Right,” he mumbled to himself. “Where was I?”

“You said I am the reason why you are who you are now.”

England flushed and crossed his arms. “It’s true. As a child I—I always ran after you. You. You’ve been the most frustrating person in my life—always showing me up and rubbing in my face how far you’ve grown. And I. I wanted to be at par with you. I wanted to be better than you. I wanted—” He looked at France, eyes wide and face cherry red. “I wanted you to do the admiring for once.”

France felt heat grow in his cheeks.

“I wanted to be so great that you’d only look at me and no one else,” England muttered, face impossibly red. He looked back down at the floor and ran his hands through his hair. He clenched and unclenched his hands. “Anyway, having you as a rival was mostly what led me to improve, hard as it may be to believe, given how ridiculous you are. Putting you in your place always did it for me. Do you remember how pathetic you were when—“

France didn’t hear the rest of it. He had already stood up from his seat and embraced England.

“Get _off_ —”

France pressed his lips against England’s in a long chaste kiss. “Je t’aime aussi, Angleterre,” he said tearfully. “That was wonderful.”

England was scowling at him and then he pecked his lips quickly.

“Well?” France asked, raising a brow and giving him a cocky smile.

England pursed his lips, looking at anywhere but France.

“Mon tresor, I need to hear it.”

“Why?” England asked, blush going down his neck now. “You know it, I know it, hell, the whole bloody world knows it—”

“S’il te plait?” France said, eyes pleading. “At least for today?”

England made a show of rolling his eyes and sighing. Then he looked at him, face still red, and France had to wonder how his head hasn’t exploded from all the pressure that blood must be giving him. But the red really contrasted his stark green eyes.

“I love you.”

France smiled widely, feeling his own cheeks burn and his knees slacken, despite the fact that he was kneeling. “Oh. _Mon amour_. I think I’m about to swoon.”

England’s arms were quick to catch him. “Damn it, France—”

France put a finger on his mouth to silence him. “Hush, don’t spoil it.”

He felt England exhale against his finger. “I swear to god—”

France grabbed the lapels of England’s shirt and looked intently into the other’s eyes. “Cabin. Now.”

The other scowled. “We haven’t even had dinner—”

It was France’s turn to roll his eyes and haul England off the deckchair towards the cabin. Well, it was England’s first heartfelt speech in ages, France supposes he could be in charge of the other activities.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm late. Honestly, I wasn't supposed to be writing anything, but then I saw this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QPE-mWHW5G8&feature=iv&src_vid=dUJX9hDjhaE&annotation_id=annotation_142213221
> 
> And I just couldn't help myself.
> 
> For the voiced version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dUJX9hDjhaE
> 
> They kept the accents on this one, by the way. Hahaha


End file.
